


oh, i've waited for you

by manticoremoons



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Bane Chronicles - Sarah Rees Brennan & Cassandra Clare & Maureen Johnson
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2018-05-25 13:42:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6197269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manticoremoons/pseuds/manticoremoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d been willing to maybe try messing around with a shadowhunter—his first—but a married one? <i>Hell</i> no. (And he’d been to hell before, so he knew exactly how serious it was).</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, i've waited for you

**Author's Note:**

> written for the [shadowhunters ficathon](http://ladygawain.livejournal.com/83265.html). for freckles929's prompt: Magnus/Alec - AU where Alec doesn't meet Magnus until after he's already married.
> 
> This is very AU 'verse that's much like the one on the TV show with some cameos from friends from the books (who are soon to appear on the show). All you need to know: everyone’s a little bit older (Alec is around thirty). Valentine didn’t re-emerge at the time he does in canon but he’s still lurking around. Alec got married to Lydia for mostly the same reasons. Magnus doesn’t get involved with Nephilim business and they’ve obviously never met. The other characters are around and will appear as they will. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to my very generous beta who read this through for me, the wonderful Kate, [Withbrokenbones](http://withbrokenbones.tumblr.com) on tumblr. All mistakes are mine but these characters ain't!

# ∞

 

 

‘It’s all right, Dot—I’ll take care of the Institute’s representative and get them off our backs in a jiffy.’

Dot lets out a gusty sigh of relief. ‘Are you sure, Magnus? I’m _so_ sorry about this. I know you don’t like to deal with these kinds of messes but I need to get back to the shop so I can open at least for the afternoon and—.’

‘I know, I _know_ ,’ Magnus interrupts, raising a finger to shush his part-time secretary, shoulder-rubber and all-around decent friend. ‘I’m the High Warlock of Brooklyn. And it’s my _un_ -sacred duty to act as liaison between my people and the shadowhunters when a bunch of idiotic vampires try to cause trouble on a Friday night and end up dead all over my club.’

‘Try not to sound so excited about it,’ Elias mumbles. ‘You only ever bother doing your job once a year.’ His disapproval is potent even from all the way across the room.

Magnus rolls his eyes and brings his snifter of brandy to his lips, lets the sweet smell of it sting his nostrils and cover up the coppery stench of the blood splattered all over the Pandemonium’s checker-board dance floor. It’s not his fault it’s just as easy to get away with avoiding all-things-shadowhunter when he’s got someone as efficient as Dot to assist him with booking appointments and all that rigmarole.

‘At least they’re not sending Maryse over, you know how much she loves her paperwork,’ Dot’s saying as she heads for the door, grabbing Elias along the way. Magnus tries not to make a face at the two of them—they’re ‘dating’, apparently. Which is just a bizarre thing to be doing when you’re more than a century old— _over two_ in Elias’ case! But they’re in that embarrassing cutesy ‘honeymoon’ stage where they do annoying things like hold hands and make calf-eyes at each other. It’s adorable, really it is. Just sort of tiresome to be around.

‘Oh? Who’re they sending?’ Magnus asks, sauntering his way to the bar so he can re-fill his drink. It’s only ten in the morning but the perils of day-drinking sort of lose meaning when you’re immortal and have the tolerance of an ox.

‘Her son, I think—Andrew? Alfred? Not sure. He’s the one she’s been grooming to take over—nice boy,’ Dot says with a shrug, then she’s waving at him and flouncing out the door, Elias in-hand.

‘Humph, well bye to you too,’ Magnus huffs, mostly uninterested either way. He’s never heard of this guy. He doesn’t even think he’s met him. _Technically_. Not that he makes a habit of hanging around Nephilim, they’re all dreadful bores as a general rule, and Lightwoods are guaranteed to be even worse.

‘Technically’ because he _does_ vaguely recall Maryse Lightwood showing up in his apartment nearly thirty years ago with a baby boy on her hip and another on the way. Magnus couldn’t remember what the doubtless repellent little brat had been like at the time. It hadn’t mattered either, he’d just wanted to get those shadowhunters out of his loft, grim reminders of Valentine’s foul circle that they were. Most babies looked the same to him anyways, drooling, squalling little things with wrinkly old-people faces.

He shudders—being a warlock certainly has its perks. Humans are the only creatures in the universe with the misfortune of starting out life looking ancient and ending it the same way, it’s all rather sad.

It likely hadn’t been a memorable visit. Magnus didn’t make a habit of retaining memories of forgettable people. Besides, Maryse had gone to great trouble to keep her child well-away from his filthy warlock hands for fear that he’d _taint_ it with his devil magic or whatever the going urban legend was those days. Back in the 1800s, shadowhunters used to tell their children that if a warlock so much as looked their way, he’d gobble them up for supper. He squints a little in remembrance and has the vague impression of Maryse Lightwood, standing stiff and upright with her grim little mouth pursed in perpetual disapproval while her kinda-slimy silver-tongued husband tried to bargain for a lower rate for some service or other. She’d definitely had the look of someone who’d been raised on daft superstitions about warlocks.

Magnus snorts in disgust and sips his brandy. Hopping up onto the bar counter, he lies back and props his right leg over his left knee to wait for this fellow to show up.

 

*

 

He’s not entirely sure how long he’s been waiting. It’s easy to lose himself in the strains of Nina Simone soaring from the speakers on the wall, eyes closed, brandy warm in his belly and seconds away from dozing into a nice nap—uncomfortable as the counter is, he’s too lazy to move.

He hears a knock—who knocks on the _door of a nightclub_ , for the love of Beyoncé? Clicking his fingers with a plume of blue smoke, he brings old Nina to an abrupt pause and leans his head up high enough to yodel, ‘Come in at your own risk!’ in the direction of the door.

He doesn’t see so much as hear this Alphonse Lightwood person tripping through the door. Magnus lets out a put-upon sigh, drags himself to a sitting position and finally opens his eyes to—

‘Hello—Mr, um, Bane? I’m Alec Lightwood.’

Magnus gapes.

‘From the Shadowhunter Institute?’

There’s a very distinct possibility that Magnus’ mouth has turned into a receptacle for flies and other winged creatures. And he simply doesn’t care.

‘I’ve come to get a report from you on the incident from last night? Mr Bane?’

The man— _angel..._ well, he _was_ both, wasn’t he?—is watching Magnus warily. He seems a bit concerned that he’s talking to a simpleton. Not that Magnus would blame him for thinking such because he has been struck dumb, which is not something that happens to him often these days. He’s been around long enough for things not to jolt him. Too long.

It’s just that this Albert— _Alec_ Lightwood is… _stunning_? In a decidedly un-Lightwood-way. He’s a _chiaroscuro_ in motion, a study in contrasts, serious brows and messy ink-black hair flopping into his eyes, a changeable hazel colour—gold in some light, cool morning grey in others, and the verdant green of a forest under the sun. Pale, a little flushed in his cheeks from the spring chill outside and dark berry-lush lips that are frankly, in Magnus’ professional opinion, begging to be kissed. And those shoulders. Magnus isn’t a prayerful man, and he doubts there’s any god that’d listen to him if he tried, but _goddamn._

‘Mr Bane, are you all right?’ the vision in shadowhunter black asks, his brows furrowed with what looks like genuine concern.

Magnus slides off the counter and pastes on his most charming smile. Striding forward with his hand outstretched, ‘I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced—call me Magnus.’

‘Oh, I’m Alec,’ he says, gripping Magnus’ hand in a firm handshake. He smiles lopsidedly, and Magnus can’t help but grin in return. They stay standing like that, grinning at each other and shaking hands for longer than necessary before Alec pulls his limb away (just in time, Magnus was already contemplating the mechanics of making off with it).

‘So, you’re Maryse Lightwood’s son,’ Magnus remarks, tapping his chin. Under his breath he mutters, ‘Who’d have thought?’ … _That Maryse and Robert Lightwood would have it in them to procreate the physical embodiment of every walking wet dream Magnus has never thought to have—there had to be some sort of magic involved._

‘Yes,’ Alec says, ‘Who’d have thought what?’

Magnus clears his throat. He can hardly say what’s in his head. He’s got four centuries of flirting under his belt, he _knows_ how to be subtle. ‘Oh, nothing.’ Waving his arms at the vampire corpses littered around them, he says, ‘So—I hear you’ve come to check out a few dead bodies, feel them up. Feel free to do that with the live bodies too.’ _Magnus wants to kill himself, that was not smooth—did he just imply necrophilia?_

Alec frowns. ‘There are some still alive?’

He looks at the decidedly dead vampires on the floor with suspicion.

 (‘Dead vampires’ is redundant, Magnus thinks, given that vampires are already dead. Someone ought to think of a better way to describe them).

‘Oh, no—no. They’re all dead. _Dead_ -dead. Deader than they were already dead before. When they were un-dead.’

Alec nods and pulls a small notebook out of his leather jacket, and starts scribbling into it. ‘Do you think this was an organised attack or—?’

Magnus has always had a yen for hardboiled detective stories—he even tried to write one of his own back in the forties when they were all the rage on the big screen with Bogart and Bacall and all the rest. Right now, he feels a bit like the beautiful femme fatale character, lounging in her living room with a cold compress on her forehead to ward off a migraine from all the stress of murder and violence, a shot of something strong in her hand, dressed in a strategically revealing but oddly virginal negligee while the Philip Marlowe character tries to interrogate her with little success and then they end up making out on the nearest chaise.

Except, of course, Magnus isn’t wearing a negligee, but his vintage moiré robe, cyan and flamingo pink, and pyjama pants count, don’t they? And he’s got the drink and the hot, brooding detective asking him serious questions and—

‘Magnus?’

 _Oh_. Magnus shakes his head to clear it. _Right_.

‘You know, I doubt it. The only vampire clan around is the New York crew.’

‘You think they had something to do with this? Because—’

Raphael would _kill_ him if he sicced shadowhunters on the Hotel Dumort. Not just kill but find some utterly inventive and cruel way to do it—like murder by forcing Magnus to wear khaki or renounce the use of hair gel for the rest of his immortal life.

‘No,’ he interjects quickly. ‘ _No_ , no way. They would never. They’re lazy. The laziest vampires you’ll ever come across. All they do is lounge around in gold caskets sipping on blood bags in the dark.’

Alec’s eyebrow climbs up his forehead. ‘Right….’

Magnus is very sure that there was a time he was better at this than he’s being right now. Gesturing at the bar behind him, he asks, ‘Can I offer you… something to drink?’

That black eyebrow hikes even higher as Alec looks at him oddly. ‘No thanks, I’m—not thirsty. And, you know, drinking on the job is ill-advised.’

 _And it’s also ten in the morning_ , a disapproving voice inside Magnus’ head that sounds disturbingly like Ragnor Fell, his other terrible friend, says. Offering a shadowhunter alcohol before lunch time while they were doing their sacred duty or whatever was probably seen as an egregious breach in social etiquette.

‘Right, of course. I mean, I’ve known a lot of people who’ve drunk on the job. Very ill-advised. You could chop a hand off or some other extremity. You could castrate yourself, which would be awful and unfortunate—’ Magnus lets his gaze slide down Alec’s front pointedly ‘— Extremely so.’

Alec looks at him blankly for a handful of seconds before asking politely, ‘Would you mind if I take a look around the scene for my report?’

‘Of course, help yourself.’

Magnus withdraws a little to let the shadowhunter do his job. So the first phase of his new-found mission to hit on the Lightwood spawn has semi-failed, but Magnus is nothing if not persistent when sufficiently inspired. He watches Alec work, brisk and efficient, photographing the bodies with a neat little camera phone and pausing every few seconds to scribble into his notebook. He _does_ attempt to not be creepy about it, he only watches out of the corner of his eye and tries not to fish-gape too obviously when Alec bends over and the dark-wash jeans he’s wearing stretch taut across his shapely butt.

All-in-all, it’s probably the hottest time Magnus has spent in near silence and mostly-ignored by another human being in all his four hundred years.

‘Mr B—I mean, Magnus?’ Alec draws him out of his ogling. He’s tucking his notebook into his jacket pocket and putting his stele away. ‘I believe I’m done here.’

‘Already?’ Magnus asks, for want of something better to say and maybe to delay Alec’s departure.

‘Yes, it looks like a typical party fight—I could get a team down here to do some clean-up, if you like?’

The thought of his club crawling with shadowhunters—shadowhunters not named Alec Lightwood—is horrifying so Magnus says, ‘Oh, no, I can clean this up in a blink.’ He clicks his fingers, and with an electric crackle of blue, the bodies disappear as does the blood and the few broken chairs.

Alec gasps at his demonstration, a glimmer of admiration in those hazel depths.

‘Wow, that’s a handy trick.’

‘ _Very_ , you never know when you’ll need to have a quick clean-up after you’ve spilled yourself.’ And the innuendo in that one is so thick, Magnus almost can’t see through it.

Except, Alec blithely ignores it and starts heading for the door.

Magnus scurries after him. By some small miracle, he reaches the door first, and opens it a little, not wide enough for Alec to pass through yet. ‘So, thank you for coming by, Shadowhunter Alec Lightwood— _Alexander_?’

He nods with a faint smile. ‘Yeah, most people call me ‘Alec’.’

‘Huh,’ Magnus utters with a lift of his shoulder, his mouth curving upwards. ‘I think, I quite like ‘Alexander’. That is, if you don’t mind?’

And there it is, a sprinkle of red on Alexander’s cheeks as he shrugs back. ‘Uh—sure, I mean, of course. If you’d like.’

‘You should come by, again. I mean—when the club’s in all her glory, Saturday nights are very popular—but I could swing you free entry.’ Magnus is rambling, he knows he’s rambling, and he can’t stop himself. He chuckles under his breath, nervous.

Alec tilts his head, a curious lilt to his gaze. ‘You’d invite me—a shadowhunter, into your territory with a free pass?’

‘Oh,’ Magnus murmurs, a breezy toss of his hair. ‘All that separatist stuff is so old-school. I’m all about inter-species relations.’ His voice drops on that last word, and he lets his eyes linger on Alec’s mouth before he meets his gaze again.

And Alec’s watching him right back, something intent and still-inquisitive in the depths of his eyes, like he’s not quite sure what to do with Magnus Bane but he might be interested in finding out.

‘I’d better go and file this report.’ He doesn’t make a move to leave.

‘You probably should,’ Magnus says and puts his hand out. ‘It’s been my absolute pleasure to meet you, Alexander Lightwood.’

Alec’s handshake is just as firm as it was before, except this time his fingers linger a little longer before he ducks his head, a half-smile playing at his mouth. He releases Magnus’ hand and walks out. Just as he reaches the pavement, no car in sight, he probably ran here or something ridiculously shadowhunter-y, he turns around to wave one last time.

‘Good to meet you, Magnus.’

And that’s when Magnus catches sight of it. The little glint of gold circling the third finger of Alec’s left hand. And _oh_ —

‘Bye!’ he calls out to Alexander’s retreating back, even as he slides the door shut with a grimace and continues in an undertone, ‘Actual _married_ shadowhunter son of Maryse and Robert Lightwood. Oh, dear.’

Magnus laughs at himself. _Of course_ he’d be married. Shadowhunters were all about breeding them young because they tended to die young. Twisting his mouth into a wry smile, he makes his way upstairs to his loft on the top floor. He’d been willing to maybe try messing around with a shadowhunter—his first—but a married one? _Hell_ no. (And he’d been to hell before, so he knew exactly how serious it was).

 _Oh well, Magnus, you win some, you lose some,_ the Ragnor voice in his head says, rather more smugly than he needs to. _Forget that shadowhunter guy and go and do something useful with yourself like… paint your nails._ (Ragnor would never suggest he do something so trivial as treat himself to a manicure—Magnus is vaguely thankful his conscience is actually still _his_.)

So he does just that. He goes up to his living room, plops on his fluffy couch and paints his nails emerald green with a line of gold up the middle, and proceeds to forget all about that shadowhunter guy.

 

# ∞

 

 

He doesn’t forget at all.

Now, mind you, he doesn’t obsess over him like some stalker. He just doesn’t forget him.

He thinks about Alec Lightwood. Alexander. He likes the way that sounds in his head, and that it was heavily implied he’s the only person that would call him by his full name.

He thinks about hazel eyes intermittently over the next few weeks.

He thinks about that lush mouth.

He thinks about that firm grip when they shook hands ( _twice_ ). He thinks about how those hands might feel gripping other parts of his body.  Would Alexander leave bruises with those warm, calloused fingers of his? Magnus sinks back into his pillows with a sigh. It’s early—just passed noon, and he generally would never be awake this early in the day unless he had a particularly well-paying client to attend to.

He stretches his limbs, feels the bones in his spine click and groans into the silence of his apartment.

He’s half-hard. His silk sheets ripple and slide against his naked form.

He thinks about Alexander’s hands, squeezing the stiff joints in his shoulders until he’s supple and relaxed, and then those fingers trailing down Magnus’ spine to palm his ass. Maybe he’d lean down and bite into the soft flesh there, leave a mark in the shape of his mouth, and then—

Magnus lets out a whine as he wraps a loose fist around his cock. He’s hard as a rock now, slick with it already.

He thinks about Alec’s hand doing this to him, pumping him roughly, closer and closer to the edge.

‘ _Fuck’_ , he grunts.

He reaches down with his right hand to fondle his balls. Thinks about Alec’s tongue doing this, getting him all wet, tracing a line up to the tip of his cock and playing with the sensitive skin there. Peering up at Magnus with those eyes of his, hair all mussed from Magnus’ hands, mouth red from sucking—

‘Oh, fuck, _Alexander_ ,’ Magnus hisses, and then he’s coming, too-fast but pleasurable all the same.

He keeps fisting his cock, lazily as he comes down from it, his hands and his stomach a mess of come. He exhales loudly, his skin prickling with sweat and smirks at his ceiling.

So, no. He hasn’t forgotten him. Not even a little. In fact, Alexander Lightwood is partially responsible for some of Magnus’ best orgasms in recent memory and he doesn’t even know it.

 

*

 

The call from the Institute comes on a Friday. It’s surprisingly not from Maryse or Alec but a woman named Lydia Branwell, offering him a substantial amount of money to come and determine if some kind of dark magic was used to create a forsaken.

How could Magnus say no to that?

(It helps that the money comes with the promise, or the possibility, of seeing Alec again. It’s probably a slim chance but it’s one he’s willing to take.)

 

*

 

A petite brunette comes to pick him up at the entrance. She’s beautiful the way a stiletto might be considered beautiful—sharp and sleek, ruthless. She smiles and says with a nod, ‘I’m Isabelle Lightwood.’

 _Ah, a sister_ , he thinks. The resemblance is definitely there. Apparently those Lightwood genes weren’t completely hopeless after all.

He follows her through the cluttered, dusty church nave with its centuries-old broken pews, and through sturdy doors that mark the start of the institute-proper. It’s been a while since he was inside this building, he’d forgotten how sterile and dull shadowhunter décor could be. Dull, grey-tiled floors. Morbid paintings of shadowhunters long-dead litter the walls along with gothic statues and weapons. So many weapons—axes, swords, spears, ball-and-chains, thick-stemmed mallets, scimitars, some he doesn’t even know the name of. No wonder they turn so easily violence to solve the problems of the shadow world. It’s like the shadowhunter equivalent of mundanes and their bloodthirsty video games and slasher movies.

The only relief comes in the striking stained glass windows. They, too, tell stories of dead shadowhunters, but with the sun hitting each coloured pane just right, bleeding crystalline scarlet, gold and blue. It almost makes the halls beautiful. Certainly, it's easier to see why this is consecrated ground.

The blond who meets them in the examination room is pretty as a picture, all cornflower blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Unlike Isabelle, with her unfettered hair and the skin-tight leather pants, three-inch heels that look very good on her (Magnus _does_ have functioning eyes and he’s wearing leather himself, so he can relate)—Lydia Branwell dresses like a soldier would. Like she needs to be able to kill things with ease and doesn’t want stuff like high heels or constricting pants to get in her way. Her hair is pulled back in a purely functional ponytail at the nape of her neck and the handshake she gives him is all-business.

The smile she gives him, however, is not. It lights up her face, her eyes sparkle, as she gushes, ‘It’s my honour to meet you, Warlock Bane—I um, it’s been my dream since I was a kid.’

Isabelle snickers, ‘Watch out, Lydia, you might start drooling.’

Lydia pulls a face at Isabelle, and Magnus is struck by how much younger she looks when she does so. Then she swings back to look at Magnus, still smiling. ‘You see—my ancestor was Henry Branwell, and, we used to hear all _sorts_ of stories about his inventions and one of them was with you, inventing—.’

‘Ah,’ Magnus interjects smoothly with an answering grin, ‘the portals.’ He’s surprised anyone knows about that. Last he’d seen of the Shadowhunters Codex, they attributed the invention of portals to Henry Branwell and some ‘unnamed warlock’. It was— _nice_ , that someone did remember.

‘Yeah,’ she says, a sheepish twist of her mouth. ‘Sorry for being such a fan-girl about it, it’s just awesome to meet someone you’ve heard about all your life in the flesh.’

‘Not a problem, I appreciate the warm welcome.’ He bows, a theatrical gesture that seems fitting after he’s had someone toot his proverbial horn so unabashedly.

It’s business after that as Lydia leads him to the decomposing corpse. The stench of it, rotten eggs, stale blood and mould, makes even Magnus flinch and long to block his nose with a scented tissue at least. The creature is larger than your typical forsaken. There are reptilian scales down the one side of its body like someone attempted to breed a python with a human and got bored halfway through. He’s never seen anything like it before which is—chilling, to say the least.

He offers his diagnosis and the recommendation to call one of his colleagues in the Spiral Labyrinth who specialises in shapeshifter and anthropomorphic magic and might be better equipped to identify how this thing was made.

As he wraps up, the door to the observation room opens with a loud clatter and in walks—

Now, Magnus isn’t the fanciful sort. But he could swear that the instant Alec appears in that doorway, he hears Louis Armstrong’s ‘What a Wonderful World’ start playing in his mind as everything slows down a tad, and Alec glides into the room, looks up from the folder in his hands, a smile so bright it could blot out the sun blooming on his mouth and—

Then everything goes into real time when Alec splutters, ‘Magnus! You’re here—in the Institute.’

Isabelle chuckles, an odd look on her face that's a mix between curiosity and knowing.  Lydia's chiding, 'Alec, don't be so rude to our guest,' is more amused than reproachful.

As if realising his gaffe, he stumbles on, ‘I mean, of course, why wouldn’t you be here—it’s your job and we hired you. To come, and see the—uh, forsaken.’

‘It’s good to see you again, Alexander,’ Magnus cuts in, amused. ‘I was just wrapping up with your sister and….’

‘My wife, Lydia.’ Oh. _Oh_.

Lydia groans at this. A good-natured smirk on her face as she sighs, ‘Yes, I’m the lucky woman who made our very own Alexander Gideon Lightwood _my_ husband.’

Alec laughs at this, it seems to be an old joke between them. It's interesting though, they don't seem to gravitate towards each other. Alec doesn't move closer to his wife or kiss her on the cheek or any of that googly-eyed couple stuff Magnus half-expects. A relief, for sure although they're probably all over each other in private—he can't imagine anyone spends more than five minutes in Alexander's presence without wanting to mount him. Magnus holds back a frown at the unwelcome thought of the two of them, his stomach curdling with envy. _It's not your place to have any thoughts about the two of them, Magnus_ , Ragnor chastises in his ear. Magnus willfully ignores him. 

‘Why don’t you show Magnus out, Alec,’ Isabelle says. ‘Lydia and I can continue with the examination and write it up for the Clave.’ She flicks a glance at Lydia then stares down at the rotting corpse on the table fixedly, a pink tint to her cheeks. _Interesting_.

 

*

 

They walk back the way Magnus came in silence. Alec seems distracted and in his own head. Magnus is torn between sneaking glimpses at the shadowhunter’s ass and telling himself in no uncertain terms that he is _not_ going to pursue this. At all. It is a bad idea. A very bad idea. The _Titanic_ of very bad ideas.

A warning which would work on almost anyone else but is a bit like waving a red flag in front of a bull when it comes to Magnus Bane.

When they reach the nave of the cathedral that marks the line between the shadowhunters’ glamoured world and the real world outside, Alec stops walking. His head is bowed, his eyebrows furrowed as though he’s sorting through something serious in his mind. The light coming the tall cracked windows casts Alec in a shimmer of gold and crimson and blue. And for a split-second he looks something like the archangel whose blood runs in his veins, _unreal_ , mythical even.

Magnus stares at him. His throat tightens. It’s difficult to breathe just looking at him.

He’s hesitant to speak into the moment, no easy joke at his fingertips. Magnus has rarely ever been scared of anything in his long lifetime. You didn't survive as long as he has by being scared.

But this man. He doesn’t even know him at all, and what he feels after this short acquaintance unsettles him. He _wants_. And he’s wanted before, he’s loved before, but something is different.

Alec finally looks up and says, ‘I’m—I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.’ The words trip out of his mouth awkwardly like he’s not sure he should be saying this but he couldn’t stop himself anyway.

‘I had hoped it would be sooner, Alexander,’ Magnus says. ‘After all, I was very serious about those inter-species relations.’

Alec chuckles. Then he gazes right at Magnus, a sombre air to him that’s at odds with the fading smile on his face. He nibbles on his lip—Magnus follows the movement, and does his best not to do something silly like drool all over his five hundred dollar Louboutin’s. To be on the receiving end of such a look is like nothing Magnus has ever experienced. It feels exhilarating and awful at once, because Alec is looking so carefully, as though he’s committing everything in front of him to memory.

And Magnus knows right then that he can’t just walk away from this. He won’t do the smart thing and leave it alone. Before Alec can say something like ‘good bye’, Magnus conjures a glittery indigo business card with directions to the private entrance of his home. ‘Well, I’d certainly like to see you again, Alexander. Dare I hope?’ He hands the card to the shadowhunter and says, ‘Call me.’

It’s the most he can do. He doesn’t know what _this_ is but maybe Alec is like him, willing to find out. He nods, swivels around on the balls of his feet, and walks out of the institute without looking back, whistling the jauntiest tune he can think of.

All he can do is hope.

 

 

# ∞

 

 

Alexander shows up two weeks later, on a Thursday.

And Magnus is—surprised, to say the least. He hadn’t expected him to come. He had tried hard not to expect much of anything. Perhaps he’d just imagined that they had some sort of rapport the all of two times they’d met. And it _was_ _two times_ , hardly the stuff of a grand romance.

(But he had _hoped_. That had always been his folly, Ragnor said so all the time.)

So when he opens his loft door to the sight of Alec, dressed all in black as usual, standing on his ‘mi casa es su casa’ mat, he’s at a loss for words. A rare occurrence.

‘Magnus,’ Alec says, a bit hesitant. ‘I—um, I just came by to visit, you know, like you said the last time.’ In the face of Magnus’ stupefied silence, he starts to talk in a rush. ‘I should’ve called though. You’re probably very busy. I mean—you’re the High Warlock of Brooklyn, _of course_ , you’re busy. I’ll just. I’m sorry—I’m gonna just go, and next time I’ll call before I come, maybe—.’

The threat of Alec actually leaving stirs Magnus from his stupor and he steps back, opening the door wider. ‘No, no, you should come in—please. Don’t go. I was a bit distracted for a moment, forgive me. Come in.’

Alec gives him a tiny smile and steps inside.

Magnus has been known to click his heels in glee when good things happen to him. He doesn’t do that now, but it’s a near thing. He shuts the door and tries to calm the odd fluttery sensation in his stomach.

 

*

 

It’s awkward at the start. Magnus hasn’t felt this unsure-footed in a century or so, he’s certain of it.

‘Can I offer you something to drink?’

Alec, who is standing at the half-way point between the front door and the couch as if he’s not sure whether to risk walking further in, even though he’s been invited. ‘Uh, yes, please.’

Magnus is good at playing barman. ‘What’s your poison? I can get you just about any drink you feel like drinking.’

‘Oh, a beer will do, thanks,’ he says.

‘Ah,’ Magnus remarks as he saunters to the fridge, opening it with a flourish. It's empty for a split-second before he conjures a bottle of Brooklyn Winter Ale from a bar down the street. Popping open the lid, he presents it to Alec with a solicitous bow. ‘A man of simple tastes. I like that.’

He tries not to stare at the way Alec’s mouth wraps around the lip of the bottle as he takes a bracing drink. Tries not to look at the way his throat works with each swallow. It is very possible that Magnus won’t survive the night with all the _trying-not_ he’s doing.

Magnus mixes his own drink. Something with chocolate and amaretto, and decaffeinated coffee seeing as he’s over-excited enough as it is. No one needs him clambering the walls from a caffeine high tonight.

They sit down, Magnus on one end of the couch and Alec on the other.

The clock in his hallway ticks loudly. Magnus wonders why he never noticed that thing before, it’s obnoxiously loud. Perhaps he could make it quieter or conjure up a different clock that wasn’t so noisy. He takes a sip of his drink.

‘So—.’

‘I’m glad—.’

They both start at the same time. Alec laughs, and Magnus does too. The tension eases just a notch and so Magnus says, ‘I was planning on staying in tonight, perhaps we could watch a movie?’ It’s mostly not true. He probably would’ve ended up heading down to the club and dancing with as many sweaty, near-naked bodies as possible before choosing someone or several someones to take to bed for the night or just coming up alone to collapse on his bed in the dark.

His prospects for the night had improved exponentially with Alec turning up on his doorstep.

‘A movie,’ Alec says, a curious edge to his voice, ‘you mean like the mundanes’ films?’

Magnus nods. ‘Yes, they’re a lot of good ones—trust me, I was around when they were invented. I’ve watched the bad, good and the ugly. Have you ever seen one?’ He knows how shadowhunters tend to stick to themselves and look down on most mundane frivolities. Mundane technology was another matter but only in so far as it aided the sacred mission. See: dreadful bores, for the most part.

‘Yes—I. My parabatai is married to a woman who was raised as a mundane, actually. I’ve seen quite a few when I go to their house. They’re nice.’

A sliver of memory tickled Magnus’ mind. Could it be—

‘Wait, do you mean Biscuit—I mean, Clary Fairchild?’

Alec looks surprised. ‘Yeah, Clary, how do you know her?’

Magnus laughs. To think, he’s been two people removed from Alexander Lightwood for the three years since Clary married that blonde blockhead, Jerome, and he didn’t even know it! The world is strange like that, he supposes.

‘She used to scribble on my walls as a toddler—I know her mother well. I helped Jocelyn set up the protection spells to keep Valentine gone all those years ago.’

‘Wait, you’re _that_ warlock? Clary always talks about the ‘Mags’ who saved her and her mother’s lives, I didn’t realise,’ Alec says. ‘It’s a small world after all.’

Magnus lets out a wry snort. ‘Not small enough if it took so long for us to meet.’

‘Well we’ve met now, so better late than never, right?’ And Alec is watching him, intent like in the cathedral but this time there’s a noticeable blush on his cheeks as he does so.

Magnus moves a little closer to him on the couch and holds out his glass. ‘Here’s to ‘better late than never’.’

Alec clinks his bottle against the stem of Magnus’ glass with a blooming smile.

 

*

 

The film they settle on is one of Magnus’ favourites. _Wayne’s World_. Alec hadn’t seen enough movies yet to develop a taste so he’d allowed Magnus to choose.

Magnus is gratified by his choice when Alec breaks into peals of laughter at Garth’s line about pralines and dick.

It’s infectious. The sound of it makes Magnus’ tummy warm just to hear it. He risks a quick glance in Alexander’s direction, and he wishes he had a polaroid handy just so he could capture that for posterity. There’s none of the over-serious shadowhunter Magnus first met or even the awkward guy at the institute weeks before. Magnus decides right then that he wants to find more ways to make Alec smile as big as that. To not do so would be a disservice to the world, the universe, even.

Alec catches him staring, and his laughter subsides into quieter giggles. ‘What?’ he asks, a self-conscious note to the question.

Shaking his head, Magnus huffs out a laugh. ‘Nothing, I just like hearing you laugh, that’s all.’

He ducks his head, shy again, before switching back to the movie. Magnus doesn’t miss the smile lingering on his mouth though and it makes that warmth in his belly bubble and fizz a little bit, pleasantly so.

 _Oh, you’re screwed,_ that Ragnor-voice mutters.

Magnus can’t even find it in himself to care.

 

*

 

It becomes a thing then.

Alexander shows up on his doorstep at least once a week, sometimes even twice. He tries to text beforehand just to warn Magnus. Magnus tells him to use the key under his welcome mat to open the door if he shows up and Magnus isn’t home yet.

They watch a lot of movies. _Adam’s Rib_ and _The Matrix_ trilogy (which Alec likes). _Rocky_ and _The King’s Speech_ (which he doesn’t). _Titanic_ (which he sobs openly at, and spends a good hour asking _why couldn’t the_ _two of them fit on that closet? There was probably enough room—just from a physics perspective!_ ). _Star Wars_ , every one including the prequels ( _How can one family cause that much trouble in the galaxy?_ ). _Avengers_ ( _Iron Man is the worst_ ).

Every single time, they sit a little closer on the couch until Magnus is sprawling on his back, and Alec lets him rest his head in his lap. The first time it happened, Alec had laughed nervously and tried not to move for the two hours it took to watch _The Wiz Live!_  A difficult task given the great music in that one. He’d gotten over it a few nights later and now, sometimes he even plays with the ends of Magnus’ hair, drags his nails along his scalp even.  Something that makes Magnus harder than a diamond in a less than nanosecond every single time, without fail. He’s given up trying to control it.

It’s been close to three months of this when Alec shoots up from the couch in the middle _Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day_ and starts pacing in an agitated manner.

Magnus, a little grumpy from having his pillow taken away so abruptly, sits up. He flicks his hand and mutes the movie at an unfortunate moment (Lee Pace is just about to start singing, it’s the bit that makes Magnus cry every single time). The steady splatter of rain outside registers. It had been ominously cloudy all day, the sky had finally stopped holding out apparently. 

‘Alexander, what’s going on?’

He looks drawn in the face, just visible enough in the dimmed living room. He runs a hand through his hair and leaving it messier than usual. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing,’ he bursts out.

Magnus isn’t sure what to say so he states the obvious. ‘You’re sitting in my apartment watching a movie with me?’

‘No,’ Alec says with a crack in his voice. ‘No. I mean _this_. You and me. Me coming here. Me letting myself touch your-your hair! And enjoying it. Me, lying to my wife and everyone I know about where I go off to every time I come here.’

Magnus swallows a lump of dread in his throat.

This conversation was inevitable. Of course it was. He’d lulled himself into a false sense of security. They were merely taking it slow, they were friends, they could do this indefinitely without trying to put a tag on it. He’d forgotten that time moves far quicker and slower in the same breath for mortals than it does for someone like him.

‘Where do you tell them you go?’

Alec huffs out. ‘For a run. Errands. To see Jace and Clary. Anything. Never the truth though.’

‘What would the truth be if you could tell them, Alexander?’

_And that’s the catch, is it not?_

He freezes mid-step and the look he shoots Magnus is painful to witness. A precious, precious ornament cracked open on the floor, all its insides laid open for anyone to see.

Just then, a flash of lightning splits the sky and renders the two of them, frozen and staring at each other, in stark white. Thunder rumbles outside, rattles the windows.

Alec shakes his head. ‘I can’t be here right now,’ he whispers, just loud enough for Magnus to catch above the rain. He strides for the door.

Magnus steps after him. ‘Alec, wait—.’

Alec pauses as he puts on his hoodie but he doesn’t turn around. His head is bowed, a picture of shame and self-recrimination. Magnus knows what that’s like.

‘I have to go Magnus, I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t wait long enough for Magnus to come up with something—anything—to get him to stay.

 

*

 

Now, some people might say that being a centenarian four times over means you’re not allowed to have tantrums anymore.

Magnus doesn’t agree.

He slams the door that Alec left wide open. The harshness of the sound is only a little bit satisfying. So then he flicks his left hand and flings a chair across the floor. The wood cracks and Magnus flinches.

He sits down on the floor, leans back against the wall raising his knees so he can rest his elbows on them a sort of collapsed Rodin’s Thinker.

 _You realise, I told you so_ , His internal Ragnor says, rather kinder than usual. Only a tiny bit of scorn.

‘I know,’ Magnus murmurs into the dark.

 _Why would you do something so stupid, though, Bane? That’s what I want to know._ The Ragnor in his head peers at him over his newspaper, his usually grumpy demeanour replaced with curiosity and not inconsiderable pity, his bushy brows beetling under his horns. _And for a Lightwood of all things. I taught you better._

Magnus laughs, a bitter gurgle more than anything else. ‘You said _‘don’t ever fall in love, Magnus. It’s a horrible waste of time’_. You didn’t teach me much of anything, Rags.’

_Who said anything about ‘love’?_

That—that’s when Magnus lowers his head into his knees. A heaviness in his gut that spreads through his entire body. He mumbles to himself, ‘You’re right, I _am_ stupid.’

 

 

Magnus isn’t sure how much time passes. It could’ve been minutes or hours that he’s been sitting hunched on the floor when he hears the creak of his door opening.

He glances up and there—is he dreaming?

Because there’s Alec, bedraggled and dripping wet. That too-long hair of his glued to his forehead, and his skin pale with cold. His chest is heaving as though he ran a fair distance to get here.

He’s a vision all the same.

Magnus clambers to his feet, tries to quash the uncomfortable tingle inside. He wouldn’t let himself hope again.

‘Alexander?’

‘I’m sorry.’ His voice is scratchy, like he’s scraped his throat raw. He shuffles forward as he speaks and stops when he’s a step away from where Magnus is standing. ‘I shouldn’t have left like that—I didn’t want to. I never want to,’ he admits.

The rain’s made his eyelashes sticky. He blinks to clear them of water and Magnus thinks he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

‘That’s why I shouldn’t have come back.’

Magnus can’t stop himself from reaching up to brush the wet hair out of Alec’s eyes. ‘But you did.’

And Alec nods, and says simply, ‘I did.’

As first kisses go it’s not Magnus’ greatest showing.

He yanks Alec in so hard that their faces thwack together. They nearly over-balance, and were it not for Alec’s upper body strength and the wall behind Magnus they would’ve toppled for sure. It’s all teeth and mushed mouths, and not much tongue. It’s two people clinging together in the midst of a storm, and trying not to make the other drown but not caring much as long as they go down together.

It’s the best kiss Magnus has ever had in all his four centuries of living.

 

 

# ∞

 

 

‘Wait, so how on earth did you end up married to Lydia Branwell?’ Magnus asks as he hands a cracker slathered in brie and fig jam to Alec, who just ducks to eat it straight from Magnus’ hand, his mouth opening wide to accommodate it, leaving a whisper of a kiss on Magnus’ fingertips.

Which is—way hotter than it has any right to be. Magnus manages, just barely, not to swoon.

They’re sprawled on a mountain of blankets and cushions on Magnus’ floor. A fire Magnus conjured crackling in the grate, and a couple of candles strewn around the room the only light. He’d given Alec some of his own more comfortable and dry clothes to wear, an oversized grey t-shirt with the words ‘Do You Like to Fart-y?’ splattered on the front—a relatively sedate choice all things considered and some old sweatpants.

Alec hasn’t made any mention of leaving yet, even though it’s two in the morning. So a slumber party of two it’s become.

‘Politics,’ Alec says with a half-shrug. ‘My family was in a bad place; the Clave was getting ready to kick us all out of the institute. And Izzy was involved with a faerie and it got her into some trouble. Max was only six years old, that sort of instability would’ve been difficult for him.’ He looks at some spot far-off like he’s remembering how it all went down. ‘It was either marry someone with the right enough connections that the Clave would be lenient with us and let us keep our home, or nothing.’

He lets out a sad trickle of laughter. ‘It all seems so long ago now—even though it’s only been five years.  But it’s five years of _my_ life, you know? And sometimes, I hate it. I hate that I made that choice but—.’

‘I suppose you were just doing your duty.’

Alec shakes his head. ‘It’s my family—I’d do anything for them. I love them with my life and… hell, I’d do it again.’

Magnus feels a sharp longing for these mortals who burn so bright as they do. To love so much and so hard, it’s something you really only know how to do when you are mortal. When life seems so short and every moment in it so immediate and fleeting, that you’ll do anything to preserve it and the people in it—if only for a while longer. He’s lived so long now that he’s almost forgotten what that’s like.

The heat in his chest is unbearable just looking at Alexander. Like someone lit a candle inside him and it's searing his innards. But he doesn’t want to extinguish it, couldn’t bear it. Perhaps he is remembering a little of what it feels like to love.

‘You’re a good man, Alexander.’

He shakes his head and Magnus continues.

‘You’re strong and kind. You gave up so much for your family, and yet you still wake up every day to fight for them, for yourself, for people who don’t even know you.’

Magnus reaches up to stroke his fingers along Alec’s jaw, the prickle of stubble there and repeats it for emphasis: ‘You’re a _good_ man.’

Alec doesn’t say anything, although his eyes gleam in the dark. He shifts his head so he can press a kiss into Magnus’ palm.

Magnus’ heart stutters. How does a gesture so tender and small set his entire being ablaze? He wants to pull Alec in to kiss him thoroughly. And Alec is watching him as though he wants the same.

Instead, he asks, ‘Did you ever love each other? You and Lydia?’

The moment gone, Alec clears his throat. ‘You know, she’s family now. Like a sister. So ‘love’ yes, but not like that.’

Magnus nods and takes a sip of tea. ‘The two of you were—never… you know, intimate?’ He does try to keep any trace of envy out of his voice but it’s a challenge.

Alec bursts into laughter at that. ‘God, no. _No_. In fact, I’m pretty sure Lydia thinks I’m impotent. We did try _once_ on our wedding night and,’ he shudders at the memory. ‘It didn’t work out.’

Magnus cackled. ‘One day, you’re going to have to tell me _that_ story.’

‘You’ll have to get me drunk, first,’ Alec retorts, a sheepish smile on his mouth.

‘Oh, really? I’ll hold you to that,’ Magnus vows with a snicker. He falls into silence and just stares at the man in front of him. His hair’s dried in the air and the heat from the fire, curlier than usual and all over the place and he’s got a smear of jam on his chin. It’s entirely possible that Magnus could spend eternity looking at Alec and never get bored.

Alec drops his gaze to the space between them and says in a muted tone, ‘We agreed to keep it platonic and it was fine. It’s been _fine._ She’s probably my best friend after Jace and Izzy and I was going to be fine with that for the rest of my life.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘I watched my mother fall apart because my dad cheated on her for years. I didn’t ever want to grow up to do the same. Even if Lydia and I aren’t married like _that_ , it meant something to me. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Magnus says, just as quiet. It feels like talking too loudly would disrupt this spell they’ve cast on this island of blankets. A spell without magic. Just him and Alexander together, here and now.

‘But then—something happened. I’m not sure I can think that way anymore. Or if I want to.’

‘What happened?’

A wry chuckle. ‘I got called in on a routine reporting visit to a club owned by some warlock. You might know him.’

Magnus grins back, bites his lower lip. ‘He sounds familiar.’

And drifting into each other feels as natural as breathing then. Alec’s mouth is soft against his own, traces of the hot chocolate he had to drink earlier. Magnus crawls closer without breaking the kiss, until he can place himself quite comfortably in Alec’s lap, nudge him down so they’re both lying on the fluffy blankets.

He pulls back, not too far, to ask, ‘Is this okay?’

Alexander nods, his fingers graze the back of Magnus’ head as he draws him in again. He groans fervently, ‘Yes.’

This kiss is nothing like their first. Magnus takes his sweet time to explore. To rub his tongue along the seam of Alec’s lips and beg for entrance. To lick the line of his teeth as his mouth opens, meet his tongue half-way. To draw back and suck on his lower lip, so hard he knows it’ll be swollen plump when he’s done. It’s languorous as though time’s stood still.

Alec isn’t a passive participant. His hands are grabbier than all of Magnus’ fantasies. Alec tugs at his hair with one hand, which makes Magnus break their kiss with a gasp, and the other hand finds its way to his ass and he squeezes. Tilting Magnus’ head, Alec dives for his throat, drags his teeth against the sensitive skin and Magnus can’t help but whine—that’s one of his _spots._ He arches his back and feels the hard line of Alec’s cock brush against his hip. And _fuck_. He wants that, he wants a piece of that.

Except then Alec pulls Magnus’ legs up a little higher so he’s straddling him properly, and he slots their erections together through their thin sweatpants just so. And Magnus loses all sense of reason. Forget taking this slow, taking the time to strip off their clothes, hours of foreplay—Magnus just wants.

‘Oh, shit, Alexander,’ he grunts as he rocks down into his lap, sets an urgent rhythm.

‘Y-yeah, just like that—Magnus, just—.’

It’s clumsy, rough and hungry, the way most first times probably are. Alec noses his way into the top of Magnus t-shirt, leaves a vicious hickey on his clavicle. Magnus returns the favour, sucking a red-hot bruise into Alec's neck. The two of them frotting against each other, both of Alec’s hands on Magnus’ ass now, pulling him in close and closer still, those runed arms of his flexing with it.

Magnus is close. The front of his pants is damp with pre-come and he just needs one swipe, one more, and he’ll tip over the edge.

He licks at Alec’s chin, that bit of jam makes it sweet, and orders hotly against his jaw, ‘Kiss me—fuck, Alexander, kiss me.’

He does. A ruthless, biting kiss, his tongue sweeping into Magnus’ mouth and that does it.

Magnus comes with a tortured groan, his hips shuddering. He nips so hard on Alec's lip, he tastes blood. Alec’s not far behind, arching his back off the floor so high that Magnus bounces on top of him. He shakes with it, panting as his orgasm rips through his body.

The sound of their harsh breathing fills the air as they ride the aftershocks.

Leaning down to kiss the hollow of Alec’s throat tenderly, he breathes him in, takes in the scent of something sweet, a hint of salty sweat and sandalwood underneath. Nudging his forehead against his chin, Magnus lets out a sly giggle.

‘Yeah, so I can confirm: you’re definitely not impotent.’

The unrestrained mirth that escapes Alexander right then is really and truly the best sound Magnus has ever heard _._

 

 

# ∞

 

 

It’s both easier and harder after that.

Magnus wants him all the time. It’s a constant itch under his skin, insistent and inescapable. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time—maybe not with anyone. Even if he has, loving this shadowhunter is not like loving anyone else for a lot of reasons.

Alec’s passion for his cause. The fact that he speaks so ardently about the need for Nephilim to honour their duty to protect the shadow world. His willingness to listen when Magnus tells him that the rest of the shadow world has felt the sting of the Nephilim’s power for centuries now, and maybe it’s important to do things differently. The way he insists that he'll take Magnus' points to the Clave, because he thinks they're important. Alec doesn't want to live in a world where his people are content to think they're better than everyone else.

(That time, Magnus had tugged him in for a heartfelt kiss right in the middle of Alexander’s speech about according downworlders the same respect as everyone else. He couldn’t help it. Something about his idealism tempered with iron-hard conviction was a massive turn-on.)

The intimacy is different too. Alec is curious, for all the sex he’s missed out on over the years. Not to a fault, but enough that even Magnus thinks he might die from all the orgasms. His body is hard and muscular, a warrior’s body, covered in scars and runes, and the scars from fading runes. The first time Magnus saw him shirtless, he’d been tempted to summon the angel Raziel himself to say thank you. Alec's six pack had a six pack, and with the ink from his runes stark against his skin, it's all very inspired to say the least. And he can do all sorts of things with that body that shouldn’t be physically possible—like holding Magnus up against a wall with just the strength of his arms and fucking into him agonizingly slow for hours. Or bending himself backwards so far that his ass grips Magnus’ cock tight enough to make them both see stars. And that one time he'd balanced Magnus up against the ceiling-to-floor windows in the living room and eaten him out tortuously slow while Magnus did his best not to punch a hole in the glass at his back.

And the stamina runes.

Magnus shivers. _Those_ are, really, something else.

He hums happily at the memory of Alexander’s indefatigable effort last weekend. They’d fucked so long and so hard that Magnus had passed out. And woken minutes later to a panicked Alec hovering above him, with his erection nearly deflated from worry. Magnus had made it his personal mission to rouse him again and ride him with such energy that they both collapsed and slept for hours after just to recover.

Still groggy from having just woken up, Magnus grins and lets his right hand drift down to his morning wood. Alec had to leave at the crack of dawn for an early morning meeting with the team at the institute so he couldn’t help with this.

Magnus makes sure to send him a couple pictures of himself when he’s done, sweaty and covered in come, with the caption, _‘was thinking of you when I woke up and just couldn’t help myself ;).’_

The series of ‘shock’ emojis and the one of a puppy with its tongue hanging out of its mouth he gets in return have Magnus chortling for the rest of the day.

 

*

 

Magnus hasn’t been called in to the institute in the time that Alexander and him started this thing.

But the situation that they’re in—that the entire shadow world is in—is so dire that Magnus can’t even find the headspace to feel embarrassed that he’s currently sitting at a table across from Alexander, who’s seated with his wife on one side and his sister on the other, Maryse, and Robert, then Alec’s parabatai, Jasper with Clary standing behind him, their one year-old, Tara on her hip, and several representatives from the Clave.

Lydia as co-head of the institute passes a folder of research around the circle, away from Alec who’s already seen it. She looks at each person in the room as they scan the contents and pass it on, and when they’re done she says plainly, ‘After months of research, we can say without a doubt that Valentine _is_ back.’

The pronouncement is met with deafening silence.

Alexander stands up and takes a few steps to the computer screen at the front of the room. There’s a different air to him here in his element than Magnus is used to seeing. This isn’t even the Alexander who came to investigate a vampire brawl at the Pandemonium all those months ago. This Alexander stands tall, back straight and shoulders broad in his black reinforced uniform, grave in the face. He seems to draw every person in the room to him by the sheer force of his presence and authority without even saying a word.

If the situation weren’t so grim, Magnus might start having salacious thoughts about _this_ Alexander standing over him like that and telling him to suck his dick.  Who is he kidding, he’s having those thoughts now.

Shaking his head, he tunes back into Alec’s presentation just as he outlines the latest atrocities.

‘It was three seelies, last month. Each of their bodies was discovered weeks later with the blood drained through the use of ritual magic. Three werewolves have disappeared from the New York pack in the last week alone. No trace of their whereabouts. _If_ the Clave does not take action now, then I fear the disappearances will not only continue but increase in number.’ His gaze flits around the room, landing on Magnus for a fraction of a second longer than the others. ‘Valentine could start targeting other populations.’

The main rep from the Clave, a portly man with a thatch-like strawberry blonde moustache who reminds Magnus of a bull terrier, pipes up, ‘The Clave does not act on inconclusive evidence, Lightwood, you know that.’

‘ _Inconclusive_?’ Lydia spits out, loud and incredulous. She looks incensed.

‘You _can’t_ expect the Clave to act on behalf of a bunch of disappearing downworlders.’ This comes from a younger Clave representative, a skinny man with close-cropped dark hair and pale skin. ‘For all we know, they’re up to their usual nefarious activities.’

Magnus has been around the block at these things for years and even he flinches at the dismissive tone. He knows all too well how little shadowhunters value the lives of people like him. And he’s done a very good job of avoiding situations like this in order to resist the temptation to turn the angel’s chosen into a bunch of croaking bullfrogs. He clenches his hands into fists to contain the spark of his magic before he can do irreparable damage to these farcical proceedings.

‘Forgive me, Petyr,’ Alexander says, in an exaggeratedly pleasant tone. ‘Is our purpose not to ensure that the shadow world is safe and protected for everyone?’

‘Well, yes.’ Petyr responds as if Alexander has asked a stupid question.

‘And does that not mean that we are charged with the sacred duty to protect _all_ those endangered by the threat of dark powers?’

Petyr, whose pale face is growing mottled red by the second, splutters, ‘Yes—of course. But—.’

‘And does that duty not mean that if we have information on the probable return of a genocidal lunatic or the rise of one of his followers who threatens not just mundanes, not just wolves or seelies or warlocks, not just shadowhunters but the _very fabric of our universe_ itself—we should act?’ Alec asks, all traces of faux-geniality wiped from his voice. The look on his face could probably fell a demon at twelve paces.

Magnus is a little breathless just watching him. He sincerely hopes it doesn’t show on his face.

Petyr looks afraid too.

Lydia stands up, her blue eyes glinting with righteous—dare Magnus call it, _angelic_ fury. ‘Petyr, Charles and my dear Amelie. We have presented you with the fruits of our thorough investigation and we implore,’ she says the word ‘implore’ as though it’s an order and every single person in the room feels it, ‘you to take this evidence and call an emergency meeting of the Clave so these issues can be addressed. I trust, you all agree, it is a matter of utmost urgency?’

Magnus can see why Alexander loves this woman, even as a sister. He flicks a glance around the table, and the Clave assholes look scared shitless as everyone in the room turns to glare in their direction. Isabelle, however, is beaming with her lower lip caught between her teeth as she gazes at Lydia, the admiration clear on her face. He makes a note to think on that later.

Tucking his head into his chest a bit, he smiles to himself. These Nephilim still surprise him, even after all these years.

 

*

 

Magnus cries out as Alec shoves him into a dusty book case on the top floor of the institute’s sizeable library and follows through with a hungry kiss. He boosts Magnus up so he can wrap his legs around his waist and hold him there with one hand. He groans into Magnus’ mouth, jostles in so close there’s not a hairsbreadth of space between them. Magnus reaches up to find purchase on the shelves at his back with one hand and grasps Alec’s shoulder with the other.

They’d adjourned the meeting, with the three Clave representatives tasked to get an emergency session scheduled within hours. Everyone had received a job. Isabelle had taken Jed to negotiate with the seelies; Lydia was preparing her presentation to the Clave, which she would lead with Alexander’s support. Maryse and Robert were on the phone with every institute head they knew to help sway the oncoming Clave vote in their favour. Clary had gone to speak with her stepfather, the alpha of the New York pack to make sure they hadn’t heard any news of the disappeared. Magnus, along with Alec, had been tasked to pore through the library’s ancient tomes to find narrow down the list of possible spells Valentine could be working with downworlder blood.

Alec hadn’t looked in Magnus’ direction as he’d assigned everyone with tasks. In fact, he’d maintained absolute professionalism as the meeting disbanded, and everyone went their separate ways, and even as he led the way up to the archival section of the library.

But the minute they were in—he’d dropped the act with surprising alacrity.

‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ he utters between fraught kisses, his fingers working at Magnus elaborate cravat, ‘you had to sit through that bullshit.’

Magnus yanks on the zippers of Alec’s leather coat—there’s so many of them, for fuck’s sake. ‘Trust me, watching you in that room more than makes up for those two assholes. I’ve met many of their kind before.’

Alec softens the kiss, draws Magnus’ tongue deep into his mouth and pulls back wetly to say: ‘I just—I wanted to kill Petyr when he said what he did. Not just for you, you understand?’

Magnus nods, presses a kiss to Alec’s cheek because he does. And he loves him all the more for it.

‘It’s not right for shadowhunters to think that way and I wish—I wish I could change it.’

Magnus smiles, a sad smile. He’s seen so much in his long life but never has he met anyone with the kind of fire for _good_ , for justice that Alec has. And perhaps he’s too cynical to believe that people can change, that a whole race can see that there’s a better way to do things. But Alec with the earnest glow in his eyes and the stubborn tilt to his chin makes him want to believe it.

‘I think,’ he says, in a meditative whisper. ‘I think that you have the strongest will of anyone I know. And, I think that I’ll do what I can—old man that I am—to help you.’ Magnus hopes that’s enough.

The smile Alec gives him is achingly sweet. It steals his breath away. Magnus can’t help but crane his neck upwards to taste it.

 

 

# ∞

 

 

‘I still can’t believe you sent your cat away on vacation to Siberia for a year,’ Alec says as he rubs said (very spoiled and moody) cat under the chin.

Magnus watches possibly his two favourite beings in the universe get along with a little smile. ‘Technically, the Chairman was staying with Ragnor—who actually hates animals. He hates most things, really. But him and the Chairman seem to get along famously for some reason. Probably united in their joint mission to make my life thoroughly miserable.’

The Chairman gives Magnus a reproachful look before sidling in close to Alexander’s knee with a delirious little cat smile. Traitorous creature.

It's a rare moment of peace and quiet even as the Clave continues to hunt for a Valentine who appears to have acquired the ability to disappear into thin air. It's nice that they can have this. Magnus hoards any moment he can get. Love, as it turns out, has reminded him of some of the best and worst parts of being human. He knows Alec's told Lydia about them, a surprisingly painless conversation from all reports. But everything still feels very precarious given that in the eyes of the world, Alec isn't his. Can't ever be his. 

Alec shifts in his seat to bring out a sheaf of papers that were stuffed into his coat pocket. He clears his throat and inhales as though he’s about to say something that's been on his chest for a long time. ‘I wanted to show you something.’ He hands the papers over.

Magnus glances at him quizzically and looks down at—

‘These are—um. These are divorce papers, Alec?’

The clattering sound in Magnus’ ears is definitely his heart. He wonders if he’s on the brink of a heart attack.

‘Yeah,’ Alec breathes out. He swallows visibly. ‘I've had them for a few weeks. The Clave doesn’t often grant divorces but Lydia is willing to make the case for an annulment with me. It turns out,’ he chuckles, a nervous sound, ‘she’s—found someone of her own.'

Magnus can't say he's surprised. He isn't the most observant person but even he's noticed the weird chemistry between Isabelle and Lydia the few times he's been at the institute. He wonders, absently, how long that's been going on. But he's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

'It should go through in six months or so,' Alec's saying. 'There’s not much they can do when both parties want a separation.’

‘And then you’re free?’ Magnus asks, his voice almost timid with the question.

‘Then I’m free.’ And everything he doesn’t say hovers between them, an unspoken promise.

Magnus leans over and kisses him.

When he pulls back for air, Alec's looking at him with eyes so soft, intent with feeling it makes his cheeks heat.

Then he says, ‘I know it’s a lot to ask. Valentine's still at large, I fight demons for a living and everything could go to hell in a second. That's always the case in our world though, you know it and I know it. So I'm asking—would you wait for me?’

It won't be easy, they both get it. And yet the alternative is not an option for either for them, it hasn't been from the moment Alexander knocked on Pandemonium's door. So, Magnus physically throws himself across the couch to straddle his lover. The Chairman yowls and scampers off the couch, no doubt running off to plot Magnus’ murder in private.

He kisses Alec for much longer this time, drinks and drinks his fill of him, until both of them are winded and flushed. He leans back, not too far, his forehead nudging against Alexander’s and says into the small, hallowed space between them, ‘For you, Alexander, I’d wait for eternity.’ He doesn’t say that he already has.

 

 

# ∞

 

 

**an epilogue of sorts**

Alexander shows up on a Wednesday. He’s, uncharacteristically, dressed in a suit, formal grey, an overcoat to ward off the first bite of winter, his tie loosened. Magnus still hasn't gotten used to the way his heart does the tango every time this man walks into a room. It's a rather brisk tango this time given that they've not seen each other for almost a month with interminable Clave business for Alec and a slew of demanding clients for him. 

In his hand, Alec holds a sheaf of papers.

‘Hello there,’ Magnus says.

Alec smirks, walks through the threshold and shuts the door behind him, leans against it—the picture of casual elegance. ‘Hello back.’

‘Are those what I think they are?’

‘I don’t know,’ he drawls with an arched brow as he dangles the papers in front of him. ‘Maybe you should come and see for yourself.’

Magnus has never been one to back down from a challenge. Of course, as soon as he gets in close, Alexander lifts his hand with the bundle of paper up high and drops a kiss on his mouth instead. ‘I have an important question to ask, first.’

‘Shoot.’

‘I love you—a lot. But. Tell me, when this is all over, will you still love me when I'm an incredibly humungoid giant star?'

A smile creeps up on Magnus' face. He nods, solemn-faced. 'Yeah'

'And,' Alec continues, 'Will you still love me when I'm in my hanging-out-with-Ravi-Shankar phase?'

'Completely,' Magnus pledges without hesitation.

'And finally, will you still love me when I'm in my carbohydrate, sequined-jumpsuit, young-girls-in-white-cotton-panties, waking-up-in-a-pool-of-your-own-vomit, bloated-purple-dead-on-a-toilet phase?’

Magnus' shoulders shake as he lets out  a full blown guffaw. He shakes his head. ‘Yes.’

‘Okay,’ Alec says, very serious as he quotes Wayne Campbell, ‘party. _Bonus_.’

 

*

 

No one actually prepared Magnus for how good totally-free-of-unwanted-marriage sex would feel.

He throws his arms above his head to grip the wrought-iron rungs on his headboard for dear life just as Alec thrusts inside him at the perfect angle to hit his prostate on the down-swipe. He shouts, ‘Oh fuck, right there.’

Alec is nothing if not obedient when it matters. He hooks Magnus’ leg over his shoulder to sweeten the angle, and lunges in deep. Pulls out half way, and then slams back in again hard enough that Magnus slides up the bed a couple inches.

‘You feel so good, _fuck_ , baby—so tight,’ Alec grits out. And Magnus knows he’s not lying because any time Alec starts talking dirty and using pet names in bed, he’s utterly _beyond_.

Magnus has no qualms about stoking the flames.

‘You like how tight I am for you?’

All he gets is a pained groan and a particularly potent thrust that makes him whine desperately, and reach down to fist his cock. He’s so _close_.

‘Come on, Alexander,’ and that, just saying his full name, gets Alec yanking his other leg up over his shoulder and driving in so deep Magnus knows he’ll feel him for days. He wants that. Wants to be able to sit down at his desk or with a client and feel it. Alec’s using all of his considerable leg strength to fuck into him, hard enough that his balls slap against Magnus’ ass with each plunge.

It’s a race to the finish line. Magnus pumps his dick frantically, feels the prickle of an orgasm all the way from his balls to his fingertips to the tips of his toes. Oh, _fuck_.

Alec’s rhythm starts to flounder and he lets go of one of Magnus’ legs so he can lean down properly and proffer a filthy, open-mouthed kiss. Magnus gives as good as he gets, a mess of tongues and teeth and wheezing. Alec reaches down to wrap his fingers around Magnus’ cock, the two of them working in tandem to pull him off.

‘Yeah, yeah, _yes_ —.’

And then Magnus comes so hard he sees nothing but white for a second, his dick spurting jizz all over his and Alec’s fingers, his abdomen. Seconds later, Alec’s hips stutter, once, twice, and he fills Magnus up. He flops down, pinning them both to the bed. His mouth open and gasping against Magnus' throat.

 

*

 

When they can come up for air, finally. Magnus tips Alec's head up so he can look at him straight in the eye and says, gravely, ‘You weren’t kidding about that ‘bonus’, were you?’

Alec kisses the stupid smile off his face.

 

# ∞

**Author's Note:**

> valentine's in chernobyl somewhere, probably, plotting and asking the universe why he chose such an absolutely shit villain lair. [this is the scene alec quotes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=74M0hPAeFHs). yes i know, the infidelity was resolved off-screen given it's magnus' perspective. also i don't care for angst right now for these two (the show is giving me enough) and in my head, lydia already had her own divorce papers ready because she wants her second chance at happily ever after with isabelle. 
> 
> thanks for reading. feedback is always a gift, so please leave some if you're so inclined. come chat with me on [tumblr](http://berensens.tumblr.com).


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